Toy Soldier
by Abracadebra
Summary: Sometimes the lesson you teach isn't the one you intended. A returned soldier and his young son visit The Cenotaph on Armistice Day 1919. Photograph shows King George V placing a wreath at the monument that day. A missing scene from my story "In the Name of the Father." Winner of two Papa Bear Awards including Gold/Best Snapshot and Bronze/Best Original Character (Mary Newkirk).


**November 11, 1919**

"Where on earth were you?" Mary Newkirk was on the landing of the family flat on Gun Street in Whitechapel as her husband slowly ascended the stairs, a sleeping child over his shoulder. "For heaven's sake, Freddy, it's past 6 o'clock. I've been worried sick."

Alfred Newkirk brushed past his wife into the flat and placed his son on the small rocking chair by the fire. He bent to unbutton the child's coat and tug off his shoes.

"He's spent! What did you do with him all day?" Mary tottered over to where Peter was sleeping in the chair and felt his head. "He's flushed. Is he ill?"

"No, we've walked a lot," Alfred said. "I'll lay him on the bed." He picked up his son. "Cor, he's not getting any lighter. Five years old this month, eh?"

"Growing fast," Mary said with a smile as her husband disappeared into the bedroom with his boy. She rested her hands on her apron. It barely covered a swollen belly. A few more weeks and the baby would arrive, and not a moment too soon, Mary thought as she padded over to a chair. She needed to sit down.

Freddy returned into the kitchen with a finger over his lips and a twinkle in his eye and sat at the table beside Mary. He lit a cigarette and leaned over to peck his wife on the cheek.

"You didn't answer my question," Mary said.

"It's a national holiday, isn't it?" Freddy said. "I thought the lad should know about it. Learn a bit about where his old man went for so long."

Mary patiently waited for specifics. "We went to Whitehall," her husband continued. "His Majesty himself laid a wreath at the Cenotaph, love. We queued for three hours and eventually we filed past it."

"Oh, Freddy. Three hours with a child in a queue? What did you do all that time?"

"Well, there were soldiers and horses to look at. And he was very interested in what people had in their pockets," Freddy said with a laugh. "He talked and talked about where their coins and their keys might be. Then he pointed out that one chap had sandwiches in his breast pocket and another had them in his hip pocket. He was of the opinion that the first chap was cleverer, because he couldn't accidentally sit on the sandwiches and squash them."

Mary shook her head in amusement. "I don't suppose you realized that meant he was hungry?"

"I fed him. Took him right after we finished up at the Cenotaph and gorged on fish and chips. He said it was a treat on a Tuesday."

"Well, I do wish you'd told me where you were going. I'd have packed you something to eat, and I wouldn't have worried so much," Mary scolded gently. "Weren't you concerned about taking a little one out in such big crowds?"

Freddy shrugged. "We walked down to the news agent's and one thing led to another, Mary," he said, lighting another cigarette. "It's an important day. He won't remember the war, but he might remember the first Armistice Day ceremony."

The door from the bedroom creaked. It was Peter, tousled with sleep and yawning as he crossed the kitchen to his mother's arms.

"The wreath was as big as me, Mam," he said, leaning close to her. Getting onto Mam's lap was futile, so he didn't protest when his father pulled him onto his. "I laid down a flower for Uncle Peter."

Behind his son, Freddy's face scrunched up in sorrow at the mention of his brother, his son's namesake. He swiped at his eyes, then shook out the ache in his heart by bouncing Peter on his knee until the boy was giggling. Then he lifted him up by the waist, tossed him in the air, and plunked him down on his vacated chair. He pinched his son's nose, turned and kissed his wife, and smoothed out his jacket.

"I'm going down the pub, Mary," Freddy announced.

"You haven't had your tea," Mary replied.

"Not hungry. We feasted on fish and chips, didn't we, lad?"

"Yes, Da." Peter sniffed his hands then held them out to his mother. "I smell like vinegar."

"All right, then, Peter _bach_. Wash up and we'll have our tea together," Mary told her son. "Freddy, don't be late." She knew it was a vain hope. He'd be out till closing time.

Freddy shut the door behind himself. His wife and son heard his feet descending the stairs and the outside door slamming. Peter ran to the front window and watched, as he did every night, his father ambling down the pavement and disappearing round the corner.

Back in the kitchen, his mother was at the stove. Peter sat at the table.

"Mam," he asked, "do you think I'll be a soldier like Daddy when I grow up?"

Mary turned to face him. "Do you want to be a soldier?"

"Daddy said I might have to be," Peter said. "But I don't think I'll like it."

"Why is that, son?" Mary asked.

He fished into his pocket, pulled out a red poppy made of paper and a black button, and placed it on the table.

"Because when you're a soldier, pretty flowers make you cry," Peter said decisively.

* * *

_The Cenotaph is Britain's national war memorial. A temporary structure was unveiled the day before the Victory Parade of July 19, 1919. A year later, a permanent Cenotaph was constructed. On November 11, 1919, King George V laid a wreath at the first Cenotaph and hundreds of thousands of people filed past it in memory of the war dead. _


End file.
